Sparks That Don't Fade

The next morning came quietly.

Nia hadn't slept—not really. Her body had learned long ago how to exist in half-sleep: alert, ready, always listening for footsteps in the dark. Her dreams were fractured pieces of memory, color, and fear. Every time her eyes closed, she was back in that cold lab, lit by Tesseract blue, surrounded by machines that sounded like screams.

When the light of dawn spilled through the floor-to-ceiling windows, she finally gave up on rest. The Tower felt different in the morning. Softer. Less haunted. The skyline outside shimmered gold and silver, and for a moment, it didn't feel like a cage.

She dressed herself—dark jeans, an oversized hoodie she'd found folded neatly in her closet. It smelled faintly like fresh laundry and machine oil. The tag inside read Property of Stark Industries. Of course.

She didn't know where she was going. But her feet moved, and that was enough.

--

The lounge was empty when she arrived. Or at least, it seemed that way.

"Morning, Starkling."

The voice came from behind the breakfast bar.

She froze.

Tony Stark stood in front of the coffee machine, wearing an AC/DC shirt, plaid pajama pants, and an expression she couldn't decipher. He looked older than she remembered from the files. Not weaker—just… wearier. Like someone who had fought a thousand battles and won most of them, but still couldn't sleep at night.

She didn't speak.

Neither did he. For a moment, they just stood there, staring at each other.

"You've got your mother's eyes," he finally said. His voice was steady, but not cold. "Didn't realize how much that would hurt until just now."

She looked away, throat tight.

"I don't remember her," she whispered.

"I do," he said quietly. "Every day."

Another pause. Longer. He didn't try to move closer. Didn't overwhelm her. Just sipped his coffee and let the moment sit.

"I'm not here to make this weird," he said finally. "I'm not even gonna pretend I know how to fix this. There's no instruction manual for finding your missing daughter after fifteen years."

"Fourteen," she corrected automatically. "I was five."

Tony swallowed. "Right."

She could feel the storm brewing inside her chest, all the words she wanted to scream. Why didn't you find me sooner? Why did it take so long? Why did they get to raise me instead of you?

But all she said was, "I don't know if I can be her. The girl you lost."

"I'm not asking you to be," he replied, softer now. "I just want you to be okay."

She didn't respond. Couldn't.

And yet… she didn't leave either.

--

Later that day, she found herself on the roof. She wasn't sure how she got there—Friday had offered her a quiet space, and she'd just followed the silence until she reached it.

The wind was strong up here, cold and biting, but it helped keep her grounded. The city stretched out in all directions, endless and loud and alive. It made her feel small. And safe.

"You're not afraid of heights."

She didn't jump this time.

Pietro stood behind her, hands in the pockets of a gray hoodie, his silver hair whipping in the breeze. He walked slowly toward her, which she appreciated. He always did that when they were alone—moved slowly, as if to show her he could control it.

"I was, once," she said, eyes still on the skyline. "But Hydra liked pushing people off things to test regeneration limits. I guess I got over it."

He winced. "Bad joke?"

She nodded. "Terrible."

A faint smile curved his lips. "You're getting funnier."

"Don't get used to it."

Silence fell again, but it wasn't uncomfortable. With him, it never was.

"I saw you with Tony," he said finally. "Earlier."

She nodded. "It was… strange. I expected to hate him."

"Do you?"

"I don't know," she said, wrapping her arms around herself. "I think I hate that I don't."

Pietro sat beside her on the edge of the roof, one knee up, arms resting on it. "I didn't hate him either. After what happened to my parents. Not really. But Wanda did. It was easier for her to burn."

"Did she forgive him?"

"I don't think it's about forgiveness," he said. "Sometimes you just… let the fire go out."

She thought about that. About letting go. What would that even feel like?

After a few minutes, she asked quietly, "Do you still hear it?"

"Hear what?"

"The screaming. The machines. The memories."

He didn't answer right away.

"Sometimes," he said. "But mostly… I hear my own heartbeat. Reminds me I made it out."

She looked at him then—really looked. There was a strength in him, but it wasn't arrogance. It was survival.

"I don't know how to be… normal," she said.

"Good," Pietro replied. "Normal is boring."

She laughed—soft and unexpected. The sound startled her.

He smiled. "There she is."

She looked down at the skyline again, and for the first time in years, she didn't feel completely alone.

--

That night, she dreamed.

But it wasn't a nightmare.

She stood in a white corridor, barefoot, her hair long and unbound. Ahead of her was a door, glowing faintly with blue light. Tesseract light.

She opened it.

Inside was herself—not as she was now, but as a child. Five years old. Eyes too big, heart too open. She stood in the middle of the room, holding a small arc reactor in her tiny hands like it was a snow globe.

And beside her stood a figure, cloaked in silver speed and starlight.

She smiled.

So did the child.

So did Pietro.